The Undone, The Divine
by mildlyholmes
Summary: The fairytale isn't what she had imagined it to be. Strict 'M' rating.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** The idea of a Christine who's not good and innocent has been playing in my mind for the longest time, so have this. It's going to be short, a few chapters long at most. Mind the 'M' rating; this fic is going to deserve it.

* * *

Perhaps she should have known that things could never be so simple.

It was supposed to be perfect. She, the fairytale bride and he, her perfect prince. Dressed impeccably in rich velvet, crisp in his linen suit. He is a dream before her; her handsome, charming, blue-eyed prince.

She walks to where he stood, and should have felt butterflies.

The wedding she had envisioned for herself is long and tedious. There's too much splendour, too many guests congratulating her on yet another marriage into the elite, a giant cake when she could not stand to eat. Every part of her feels queasy—her chest, her lips, her knees, but she brushes it away, tells herself that it's normal to feel nervous as a bride.

 _Intimacy_ , a voice in her head whispers. _You crave intimacy._

But when they're alone at last, locked together in his room that's too bright and too big, she can't deny that intimacy is the last thing she wants with him.

He had been gentle, of course. He's just as much of a beginner at this as she, being the good, honest boy he is. Everything about making love to her husband feels soft, tame, innocent.

When at last he dozes off, she is left feeling unfulfilled.

* * *

The fairytale isn't what she had imagined it to be.

Somehow, she envisioned pretty dresses and a doting husband would equal to a happy life. He gives her all of these, of course—there is nothing she wants that he can't provide, no fortune too large for the Vicomtesse de Chagny. Her prince is so gentle with her, so loving and attentive to her every need.

He doesn't complain when she starts to give away her dresses, her—his money. As a Vicomtesse she is not expected to work, and she would rather not claim his money as hers but he insists that _it's yours to do as you wish, Christine_. So she takes his money, takes his food, takes the dresses and jewels that he gives her, and gives them to the beggars outside their door.

In all of the stories about princes and princesses, Christine has never heard the side of their citizens. They are poor and begging and hungry, and she has grown up in an Opera House of giggling ballet girls and frilly ribbons. All she has known is what it means to please the elite with perfect dances and pleasing arias. Her world had been composed of the rich, and so she didn't think of the poor.

Stepping into her palace of a mansion is a slap to her face. Gone is the splendour of the Paris Opera, the delusion of beauty and good. The world is ugly and hateful, and she finally sees it when she rides in the carriage with her prince for the first time. She sees the people—sees how they are hardly human, made of bone and stretched skin and hollow cheeks and angry voices.

 _Why won't you help?_ she asks her prince one day, when they are sheltered by the warm fire in the library that is far too big for them.

He shrugs noncommitally, turning the page of his book as he brings his feet to rest on the sofa. _There are too many of them,_ he says, not looking up at her.

It's then that she begins to understand. Fairytales are written by the winners, and she has never been a winner.

* * *

She would like to say that she doesn't think of her angel beneath the Opera House, but he consumes her every waking thought.

Before, she was a girl envisioning the perfect life. A songbird with her head in the clouds, a princess waiting for her prince. Dreaming of her angel who would come down from heaven and sweep her off her feet.

Ideas of romance were just those: ideas.

Now she has her prince and her fairytale, she cannot help but cling onto reality.

She sees more of the world through poverty's eyes. There are so many colours—black, blue, green, grey, brown—but they all hold the same spite, the same hate. They sneer at her when she walks among them, and she doesn't blame them. She would sneer at herself, too.

The ladies in balls and enormous gowns wonder why she goes out to do the groceries by herself. That is a maid's job, and she is not a maid—she is a Vicomtesse. Every whisper, every glance tells her what she already knows, but she persists. The markets, though full of hardship, hold more life than the dances she and her prince are invited to.

But she sees, now, how the world works. There is sadness and despair and hate, and there is hurt. She is an observer on the sidelines, a princess in disguise who watches the events of the streets unfold. She sees crying babies and yelling mothers and abusive fathers. She sees children who crawl underneath tables and steal from stalls to bring food to their friends. She pretends not to notice when they come and steal from her, too. They like to steal from her—her basket is always full with bread and confections's she's nicked from the Chagny kitchen—and she is happy enough to let them.

One small act of kindness to change a little boy's life.

She begins to understand her angel, now. She doesn't forgive him—she cannot forgive him, not after his manipulation and possession of her—but she understands. Sees why he hates the world, and why the world has always hated him. The world does not like ugly things, and they deem him the ugliest of them all.

The women in ragged dresses throw hateful glances at her lavish one, at her: a representation of the elite. She sees him in them, and understands why he hates the world, as well.

But she occasionally catches sight of the skinny children laughing and giggling as they play, glimpses the hint of a kiss shared between parents who are undoubtedly poor, but in love. She thinks about how deep their gazes are, how plainly written their happiness is on their faces.

They do not have much where she has so much, and they are content. There is beauty beneath the surface of ugliness, just as there is ugliness beneath the façade of beauty.

And suddenly, she doesn't want her fairytale anymore.

* * *

Christine de Chagny is a good wife who loves her husband, a princess happily united with her prince. She goes to parties and laughs along with the elite, sipping daintily at the champagne flute in a gloved hand. Dances with every man who wishes her hand, and giggles prettily when her husband swats them away to claim her for himself.

Christine de Chagny doesn't exist, and never has.

In her place is Christine Daaé. Christine Daaé, who owns three pretty dresses out of the fifty her husband had given her because she had distributed them among the maids and their families. Christine Daaé, who cannot stand the sight of her polished shoes because it means she has not been outdoors to visit the world yet. Christine Daaé, who spends her every waking hour thinking about reality when she is trapped in a fantasy.

Her fairytale prince is no more.

She begins to want more than what he gives her. Not material goods—he has enough of those to spare. No; she wants to see more than an affectionate smile, she craves more than the tender kisses he grants her, wants to tear him apart with her tongue and teeth and touch until he is sobbing her name.

Princesses do not want to tear, but she does. She wants to rip and scream and laugh and cry until she is completely and utterly drained. She wants to bleed herself dry, to spend every waking moment of her life living for herself and only herself. Society is nothing, to her; they do not matter.

It's laughably ironic how she had the chance to refuse all of this, to throw it away and let herself live, sing, indulge in all the pleasures she's seen between men and women on the streets at night, and yet she didn't.

She, Christine Daaé who always wanted to be Christine de Chagny, has finally gotten her wish—and she does not want it.

She had thought something was wrong with her, before—because _surely_ good girls didn't think like this—but walks on the Paris streets at night show her that this savageness exists in more than just herself. She sees couples against the wall and on tables and in the hushed secrecy of a dark alley, hears cries of passion and grunts of ecstasy, and wonders why she and her prince are so quiet in their bed.

She tries, one night, to initiate something between them. Pins her husband against their locked door in the dead of night and kisses him until he is panting in her mouth. Excitement flares in her stomach, and finally—finally—she can feel her skin thrumming, her pulse racing.

But he slows them down and takes the lead, guiding her to their bed and pressing kisses to her forehead. Hands do not wander from her hips, and when he pushes into her, it's slow and boring.

It's entirely proper.

Christine Daaé hates propriety. There is fire in the touches she sees on the streets, living within these people who aren't bound by the limitations of propriety. They are free to do as they wish, these people who do not exist in the eyes of her society—of her prince's society.

And perhaps they might call her disgusting if they knew of how she touched herself in the darkness. Her husband, being the good little working man he is, always finds himself away on business trips or dinners hosted by important men in important suits. Maybe she should feel lonely when he is gone, but she only feels excitement at the thought that she can finally rub herself until she's shuddering into her pillow, that she can touch her breasts and hips and all the curves he has neglected to put his hands on.

Usually, it's imagination that spurs her on. Her thoughts are full of wicked fantasies of a man on his knees, his head trapped between her legs. He does not have a face, nor does he have a voice, but in her head he cries out when she sits atop his lap and takes every inch of him into herself.

The woman empowers, the man lets her, and the roles reverse. Worship is written from one body to another, the scent of sex and sweat rising in the air.

Good girls do not think of sitting on top of their dressers and spreading their legs, but perhaps Christine Daaé has never been a good girl.

* * *

Eventually, the faceless man comes to have a face, though she cannot seem to complete it. His voice starts to remind her of an angel fallen from heaven, ready to sin. She imagines him to be tall, with long, graceful legs and strong arms and a thin chest, so unlike her husband, and the fingers between her legs are long and lithe.

He is always full of passion, this man in her dreams. Every part of him thrums with unrestrained ardour, and he uses it to teach, to take, to give and give until they both fall apart. He pushes and tugs and bites and licks, and he is completely, utterly savage.

He does not make love to her—no, she has had enough of lovemaking. She wants rough, she wants hard, she wants fire and desperation and to beg and make him beg.

In her dreams, he fucks her like she wants to be fucked, and there is something so delicious, so _thrilling_ about giving this strange beautiful desire a name, and about that name being so obscene, so vulgar.

No, Christine Daaé is not a good girl, and never wants to think herself one ever again.

The acceptance of this slowly brings about a face to her faceless man, and she realises that she has never been able to complete it because half his face has always been missing. She wants lust and sex and hunger and he gives it to her— _him_ , with his thin lips and blazing golden eyes, raised flesh and jutting spine. She knows she should abhor him, should be disgusted at herself for desiring him so—because this _must_ be desire, this nameless need to possess him as he had once possessed her—but she can't.

Trying to think of another man does not work. The mysterious lover of her dreams is suddenly gone, replaced by the image of him and only him. Him and his seductive voice, him and his long fingers, him and his ruined face.

So she finally embraces the image of him, imagines him coming to her and setting his mouth on her and spreading her legs until she is begging for him until she cries out his name.

 _"Erik!"_ she sobs into the dead of night, her crisp white nightgown thrown on the floor, naked body laying on top of the covers, thighs spread apart with her hand covering the secrecy every proper woman strives to hide from the world.

Sleep comes easily that night, a blissful slip into dreams of everything and of nothing.

But still, the air kissing her breasts is nothing like what she imagines his tongue to be, and it's maddening.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks for the positive responses of the last chapter! I have no clue where this story is going, but it's definitely going somewhere.

Be warned that this chapter is _extremely_ deserving of the rating. If smut is not your thing, skip the second half. Then again, if smut is not your thing, then perhaps you should look elsewhere because there's going to be a _lot_ of it in this.

* * *

In the faint hours of morning, an angel stands before an Opera House and a demon watches her.

It is easy to cling to the corners of buildings, to the shadows of structures that cast him into darkness. Six months since the fire, and it is fortunate that the managers have been able to restore the theatre. Yet another new chandelier, refurbished seats and stage, and the same patrons that attend for an evening of entertainment.

Ridiculously, the scandal seems to have boosted sales higher than ever before. The patrons and opera-goers are fascinated by the Phantom, and Box Five has been occupied every single night since he abandoned his post, the viewers eager for a glimpse of the Ghost.

His life— _her_ life—is all a fascinating story to them, these elite who think themselves more important than the rest of the world. Every blunder, every aspect of their association has been dramaticised and romanticised into a tragic story of the Ugly Ghost and Pretty Soprano's relationship: the gossip of theatre-goers everywhere in Paris…

He scoffs at the idea. If only they knew the truth: that there had never been enough between him and his former pupil to form any _semblance_ of a relationship. But he's been the mysterious tutor sent from the heavens for years, and now that she knows him as a man, she abhors him.

Granted, he has given her cause—but that still doesn't make it any better.

He stands behind crafted stone and sees his angel, watches her as she stares at the building of her former home. Chestnut curls piled atop her head in an elegant bun, gloved fingers clasped together by her stomach. So proper and poised, without the boldness of a performer.

It is the first time she's returned since the fire.

That night, he sneaks into the Chagny residence as he always does. It's laughingly easy, but he doesn't dare take any precautions. Steps are light and calculated, ears attentive to any hint of movement. He will not be exposed by the Vicomte, no matter his crime.

And just as he's predicted, Christine is touching herself when he quietly lands on the balcony of her room. Mocking lips curl into a smirk; her husband must be away for the night.

She's writhing and moaning and gloriously naked on the magnificent four-poster, one hand between her legs and the other cupping a breast. He watches as her lips part, as her back arches, sweat gathering in small beads by the column of her neck. Doesn't let himself think about how he has pried into her life and continues to do so, invading her privacy as he always has. Golden eyes rake over her nude body, appreciatively tracing over white skin, soft curves.

Her hair is wild and tangled, her chest heaving in frantic gasps. Christine touches and rubs and gasps, desperate and visibly frustrated, willing herself to reach that sinful heavenly peak. He watches her in the shadows, drinking her in greedily.

It's lewd and inappropriate and invasive, but he doesn't care. He's too far gone to care, now.

When she finally comes, her whole body shudders, her mouth opening to cry out a name.

" _Erik!"_ she almost screams, burying her face into the pillow in the last minute to muffle her cries.

Time itself seems to stop as he stares at her nude body tossing on the sheets, listens to her voice contort and sob his name again and again. _Erik, Erik, Erik_. Never had he thought his name beautiful, but to listen to it tumble from her lips in the throws of passion is his blissful undoing. She's coming down her high but he's still climbing it, grasping yet never quite catching that pinnacle point of pleasure, untouched by his twitching fingers.

His eyes never leave her form, drawn in by her gasps, her moans that finally quiet into sighs. He can almost see her heart start to slow, her blood leisurely flowing within her veins.

At last she lets out a deep sigh and sits up, reaches for the white nightgown that's tossed on the floor, and buries herself under the sheets.

He'd returned every night since her marriage to lament over what he's lost—what has never been his in the first place. And wondered if he'll ever be able to possess her body as he had once possessed her mind.

And tonight, watching his prima donna drift off to sleep, he finally has his answer.

* * *

Perhaps she should have known that he would eventually come to her.

His presence is something unexplainable, yet unmistakably felt; she senses him as soon as she enters her room, knows instantly who it is. The maids are still up, dusting the last bits of the house before they retire to bed, and he has the nerve to enter her home. Her blood freezes in her veins, and suddenly her heart is pounding far too loudly in her ears.

He's supposed to be dead.

The room is shrouded in darkness save for the slither of moonlight that creeps through her open window. An untrained eye would not have spotted him, but she can see him clearly: standing a few steps in front of the balcony door, the outline of his tall figure faintly traced by moonlight.

He's supposed to be _dead_.

The door is closed behind her, and she doesn't realise she's shut it until she takes her hand away from the polished wood. Her breath is stuck in her throat; she can hardly breathe. He is as still as she is, both unmoving as they stare at each other.

Beats pass, the air thick with thrumming tension. Somehow, she can feel the golden eyes that hold her still.

It's her who finally breaks the silence. "Why are you here?" she asks, voice low.

He doesn't move, but she can almost see the cock of an eyebrow. "Are you surprised?" he counters, and it's a marvellous betrayal to suppress a shiver at the sound of his voice.

A breath is forced down her throat, deep and slow. "No, I'm not." Then, "You're supposed to be dead."

"He told you I was dead." His tone is wry and mocking, intending to ridicule her naïvety. "Didn't even bother to check if it was the truth before he quickly affirmed my death, and you took his word for it. Isn't that right? Your _precious_ husband."

"My husband has nothing to do with this," she snaps. "The mob—"

"—couldn't have captured me if they tried. Really, Christine, I thought you would have known better than to doubt my abilities." A tilt of his head, and she can see the faint hint of his thin lips, pulled into a knowing smirk. "Or perhaps you never have. After all, I don't think any woman would think of a dead man while touching herself at night."

Her cheeks flame. "You watched me," she hisses accusingly, fingers digging into palms by the sides of her hips. "You haven't changed."

"No, but _you_ have." If it was possible, she would say that she could _hear_ the smirk in his voice. There's no pride, no admiration—just his maddening beautiful voice insulting her position. "My little songbird, always so innocent and proper."

Her eyes flash warningly. "I am _not_ yours, Erik."

He takes a step forwards, then another, then another. The moonlight illuminates the unmasked side of his face, outlining his sharp cheekbone, his jutting jawline. Everything about him is sharp, from his crisp outerwear to his glaring gaze. He eventually stops in front of her and stares impassively, inspecting her, assessing her.

It's futile to search his expression, but she does it anyway. Pushes away the disappointment that floods her bones at the discovery of nothing new.

"No, you are not," he says finally, and she's not sure what to think of that conclusion.

A knock sounds at the door, and the charged tension in the air is broken for a moment. "Madame de Chagny?" a girl's voice sounds, faint through the thick door. Her maid. "Would you require my assistance to undress, Madame?"

She is about to tell her that she will be but a moment, but a sudden idea grasps at her and doesn't let go. Christine looks up at the man who had possessed her so completely, who had lied and manipulated and invaded her very life, and holds his gaze.

"No, thank you, Charlotte. I will manage for tonight."

" _Oui_ , Madame."

Her former tutor stands fixedly, never once betraying a hint of expression as the sounds of footsteps start to fade. It is well past eleven; the maids have long since retired to their wing. She knows the bedroom is well secluded—no one would overhear them now.

He knows it too.

She will not let him toy with her again. He has come to her once more, revealed himself to be something he is not—not an angel, not a dead man—and expects her to fall into him again. But no, not this time. She knows what she wants from him, knows how to get it. Desire is an ever-burning flame within her, desire for his body, desire for _him_. It's overpowering and sinful, and she is a saint fallen from grace. She will use it to use him.

She steps forwards, and it's too close. All he has to do is move an inch, and their chests would touch. The space between them is deliberate; he understands that.

A slender hand reaches up to toy with his cravat. "I've always hated these," she comments, sliding the smooth silk through her fingers. He stands unmoving, and she can feel the tenseness in his muscles as he tries to control himself.

Good.

Her fingers drag along the silky material, lightly skimming the flesh of his neck. "They're terribly difficult to remove." Blue eyes hold gold, direct and forward.

His cold hand reaches up to cover hers, long fingers expertly undoing the tie around his neck. It falls easily from his shoulders, fluttering to the ground soundlessly. "Perhaps you haven't been trying hard enough," he murmurs, voice a dulcet tone of suppressed lust, barely restrained, unable to taunt.

Good.

The skin bared before her eyes is disturbingly pale; she moves her hand to stroke it, feels his pulse in the pads of her fingertips. Touching his flesh betrays the way his blood races beneath her fingers, his control slowly slipping away.

Try to mock her now. Go on.

A hint of a leer plays at her lips, and she looks up at him once more. "Why are you here, Erik?" she asks again, already knowing the answer.

He holds her gaze for a long time, before finally replying, "I believe you called for me."

"I did," she affirms, and reaches for him.

She does not kiss him—not those oddly shaped lips, thin yet bloated (the same lips she had remembered kissing twice: once to set her prince free, the other for a reason she cannot quite grasp)—but his coat falls to the floor with a dull thud and her hands are tearing at his shirt, sending the buttons flying. Instead, she presses her lips to the cool skin of his chest, feels his breath hitch and pulse race beneath her mouth. It sends a visceral flood of fire through her veins, wild and powerful. Her nails rake his flesh as she pushes the offending garment off his shoulders, and her tongue draws and explores the strange marks of his skin.

The words he doesn't say are inscribed in the way his hands tangle in her hair, fingers fisting against her scalp. Her teeth scrape on a nipple and the fingers in her hair tighten none too gently, pins falling to the ground. It doesn't go unnoticed that he's still frozen to the spot, shocked at her rabid attack of his body, and the realisation that hits her is delightful.

He's inexperienced, new to the act of sweat and skin. The Phantom of the Opera, master of everything apart from the joys of the flesh, still after six months.

And Christine Daaé, the ingenue, maestro at last.

She drags her nails down his torso, feels the air leave his lungs when her hand slips into his waistband and mercilessly grips his shaft. He is so much _thicker_ than her husband is that for a moment, she slips into weakness, sharing the groan that leaves his mouth as she thinks about how he will feel inside her.

It's thrilling to think that she can take this from him: that she can possess his body just as he had once possessed her mind. Her touch is cruel and full of maliicous intent, stroking him in ways that make his body shudder for her. Control is a wasted effort; she recognises this in the way he tries to bite back the moans leaving his mouth. Every sound he makes shoots a thrill down her spine, racing through her bones and pooling wetness between her thighs.

But she knows that with inexperience comes the inability to persist, and the thought of giving him satisfaction when she has been unfulfilled is an unappealing one. Abruptly, she lets go of him and does not wait for him to recover before turning her back to him. "Help me out of my dress," she orders, pulling her hair aside so he can access the buttons.

Impatience overrules the haze of his mind at her ministrations; with a forceful rip her dress is undone, and she quickly strips the sleeves off her arms, letting it pool to the floor. An irritated groan sounds behind her at the sight of her corset and she almost laughs, but he makes quick work of it until it, too, lies at her feet. The chemise is finally pulled over her head, and she pushes the offending garmets aside with her foot.

Perhaps it is cowardly, but suddenly, she does not want to face him. She does not want to see his face as she takes this from him, does not want to see his eyes glowing as he drinks in the sight of her body. So she reaches behind to grab his hips, pulls him forwards to grind against her bare curves. And oh god, the lips on her neck are glorious and the hands grabbing at her breasts are delicious, and all she can do is let her head fall back against his shoulder with a sigh.

He is rough, as she knew he would be. Driven to desperation by the absence of touch, mad with longing for the need to be felt. Her fingers tangle in his as he explores her body, guiding him to all the places she wants to be touched, letting him learn the topography of her skin. She drags his fingers between her legs and moans when he feels her there, where she is wet and wanting.

And _this_ is what she loves most about him: his ability to learn quickly. It is clear that Erik is inexperienced, but she presses his thumb against that wonderful, delicious spot and curls his fingers inside her and he immediately absorbs her reactions. There are quick breaths against her ear, loud and hot as he listens to her delirious cries, sweet agony building fast and unbearably close. He rubs and flexes fingers inside her until she is sobbing, knees buckling unsteadily beneath her. He moves them forwards until she is pressed against the door, and it's dizzying to feel his hand press harder against her, trapped between her legs and solid wood.

Still, his expert fingers are not nearly enough. "Erik," she gasps, overcome with the need to feel him inside her. Pressed against the wall, pressed against him, she feels the full extent of his desire: long and thick and throbbing against her curves, so close to her searing heat. "Erik, please—now—"

Her words are a beg, but she hears his submissiveness in the way he groans into her neck and bites at her flesh. Power has not been relinquished from her hold yet. He is utterly helpless, and it is all her doing.

"Erik—" she hisses, reaching behind to roughly grasp at his hair. _"Now."_

He does not need to be told twice. He slides easily into her wetness in one swift movement and it's a reverent prayer within this act of transgression.

Jutting hips jerk against hers in quick, unpracticed movements, and somehow it's delicious. She should feel trapped, pressed between his body and the door, him pushing into her from behind. Their rhythm is set by his snapping hips, her pleasure fuelled by his fingers still pushed against that sweet nub of shivers and screams.

But here and now, Christine hears his voice, loose and delirious and mingled with her own, and knows who's truly in charge. Him, losing himself in her hot grasping core, so soft and inviting and devouring him deeper within her. The knowledge of this utter possession of him is so delightfully empowering, drenching the very essence of her until she can't tell his voice from hers. All she can focus on is his other hand raking at her breast, brutal and clumsy but _so, so good_.

It's easy to lose herself in this sex he gives her. She cannot see his face, cannot see what she has taken. Knows he's willingly _hers_ from his grabbing hands, his breath panting by her throat.

And pushes away the little slither of compassion that reminds her she's his first, he has never done this before, and she should be gentle. The princess in her that wants a perfect wedding night of shared sighs and deep gazes.

She closes her eyes against this betrayal and lets herself be guided by the primal animalistic urges of her body, spinning higher and higher into herself. Pleasure is a forbidden fruit dangling from his fingertips, and she will take it. He will not shake her; she will not let him.

She will find her release, and he will give it to her.

Colour explodes in a burst of sensation when his tip rubs against her _just right_ , and Christine lets herself scream. Her voice raises and contorts and she hears his do the same, gasping and groaning and sending delightful shivers down her spine. There is _finally_ release, _finally_ a chance to let her body sing and thrum the way it had yearned to for so long, and it's delightfully fulfilling. He goes limp against her, pressing her tighter against the door but she is too exhausted to complain, too satisfied to push him away.

When he finally pulls away, there is no eye contact. He silently dresses as she silently watches him, and there is no shared kiss as he steps out into the balcony and disappears into the night. She watches him leave her and her wet thighs, soaked with their shared fluids, and suddenly remembers her husband.

He is standing at her balcony the next night when she enters the room.

She lets him in.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I _love_ reading your responses; thank you for them. And keep in mind that Christine and Erik both have very specific opinions on how they've been wronged by the other, when really they should be realising that some things that have caused a drift between them are their own faults. It's far too complicated a situation to leave one side completely blameless, no matter how much they insist they are the victim.

* * *

It goes on for weeks.

Christine spends every waking morning out on the streets, purchasing little trinkets from hunger-crowned stalls and giving half of her lunch to the children who are too thin. Her husband frowns but does not comment, remains silent when the snobbish French elite stick their noses up at her with rude remarks. He is caught, she knows; he understands that she had once lived without luxury, long ago, when her father was still alive. Her father had sheltered her the best he could, but even he could not shield her from the occasional lack of food on their table.

It is simple, so simple to her. They have a fortune kept to themselves—just between the two of them!—and it is so much more than what they need. If they have enough to live, then why not give the rest of it away? Why keep money when they do not need it?

Somehow, her prince doesn't understand. He is a good man, a far better person than she is; an honest partner where she is fickle, a loving husband to her whoring wife. He is her knight in shining armour, braving dangers ranging from a crazed Opera Ghost striving for her love and her own indecisiveness when it comes to love. She should feel guilty for fucking another man when he's away on business trips.

Then why doesn't she?

Lovemaking with her husband never sits well with her. He is gentle, he is kind, and she is a whirlwind of emotions, confused and angry and built-up passion waiting for release. Christine thinks that perhaps her body is not made for gentle, not made for kind. She is a violin string pulled tight, moulded to be the highest pitch of delicate darkness even before she knew her own name.

So she spends her mornings giving to reduce poverty and her nights taking to ease the knots within her soul. Both the charitable saint and wanton lover, neither title able to conform to the demands of the elite. And she knows she can choose to be the wife she was meant to be, the perfect little princess Vicomtesse who wears fancy dresses and keeps her opinions to herself.

She chooses the other.

Perhaps it's Erik her body longs for because he is an outcast to society. Shunned from birth, belonging everywhere and nowhere all at once. She traces the scars on his body, each a map to every land he has ever set foot on, and inhales his intoxicating scent of spice and wine. All too foreign and divergent, and somehow only ever wanting her.

So unlike her docile husband, too tame, too virtuous. She feels suffocated by his light.

* * *

All his life, he had only ever wanted to be loved.

As a child, he'd wanted to be held. A kiss on the forehead for sleepless nights, a smile and a caress for a mornng greeting. He has been devoid of touch and sensation, only ever surviving on his own.

In one night, he receives touches, strokes, embraces—all without the incentive of love.

Social connections do not come easily to him. Every action he takes is carefully calculated and previously pondered to ensure no mistakes are made. He was a distrusting child, now a cold-hearted man; love is a foreign distant desire, locked up in the deepest cavern of his indifferent mind.

Still, his body is his own and no one elses. He cannot—will not—become a slave to lust and desire and let his limbs tangle with another's.

Christine Daaé steps into his life and he is suddenly helpless.

It is astounding—laudable, really—that she is able to undo him so thoroughly. An orphan girl with an ethereal voice, hardly special yet so very exceptional. She is the living contradiction of his existence, the angel songbird to his demon seduction.

A disastrous opera and a destroyed theatre later, and he is still waiting for her to walk into the room to meet him.

Weeks have passed, and the Vicomte is still unaware of what his wife does in the darkness. It gives him a primal visceral thrill to know that even now, it is _his body_ that she grows wet for, _his touch_ that makes her fall apart. She is an instrument and he the virtuoso student, ever eager to learn her secrets, draw out the sweetest chords of tantalising pleasure. Once again, it's _him_ whopossess her body even when she is bound to another.

Except that he doesn't.

She wants him for the prospect of release that dangles from his expert fingertips, his studious tongue that has mastered the secrets of her body. She wants him to fill the space her husband has neglected—both literally and metaphorically. The Vicomte gives her gentleness where she wants passion, and Erik secretly desires for both. But he is a silent performer sensing the role she wants him to play, and pushes away any semblance of love for a quick fuck in the shadows of the Chagny guestroom on the rare occasion that her husband is home.

Always on her grounds, her territory. He does not belong there, but then again, neither does she.

The Vicomte is away again and so he waits on the balcony of her bedroom, tall catlike grace stretched into a regal posture. The night is still young; twilight still hints on the horizon, but he does not have to wait long. Christine's voice sounds from the hallway, announcing her desire to retire early. The maids are not to disturb her under any circumstances, for she is tired and would like some uninterrupted rest.

A faint, humourless smirk graces his lips. His diva, ever the little liar.

The door opens and closes, and there she stands. Her dress is a deep burgundy tonight; she must have come from an outing with her elite friends. Curls coiffed up atop her head, making her look like the royalty she was never born to be.

"You look ridiculous," he remarks as he steps into the room, the lie slipping easily through his teeth. She looks positively stunning.

Christine cocks an eyebrow at him. "Do I really?" she asks slyly, her words a taunt. Of course she sees right through him.

He hates his blatant adoration, this selfless devotion. Of all women he could ever love, he chooses the one who uses him.

Still, he masks his hurt and nods curtly. He's a proud, masochistic recluse and it is impractical, but he cannot change.

He has done too much for her, received nothing in return, and still gives into her.

Christine turns and he routinely approaches her, long fingers deftly undoing the ties of her dress. "Philippe wants me to learn to garden," she says conversationally, a slender hand reaching to pull the pins away from her hair. He swats away the curls that tumble down her back, refusing the temptation of caressing them with a studious touch. Stay practical. "He says a woman should know lilies from daffodils."

A scoff leaves his mouth at the absurdity of such a simple statement. "That is ridiculous."

The dress falls away, leaving her shoulders bare, and he moves to work on her corset. The smooth skin is so tempting to touch but he fixes his eyes on the strings of the restrictive garment, a flash of irritation blooming through him at the ridiculously thorough knots. "He says it would make my husband happy to have flowers in his garden," she continues, a gust of air leaving her throat as the corset begins to loosen. "And that it is a woman's duty to please her husband."

A sharp, decisive tug, and the corset finally falls away. The sudden desire to reverently run his lips over her neck is firmly pushed away. Gentleness is not welcome in her bedroom; he understands this.

So instead, he tugs her chemise over her head and steps forwards, circling his arms arouns her torso. A wicked hand moves up to grab at her bare breast, and a cardinal thrill shoots through his spine when her head falls back against his shoulder. "The aristocrats have too many rules," he murmurs, sneaking the other hand down her pantaloons. A gasp leaves her lips and he grins, wild and feral.

All too soon, she pulls his hand away and turns to face him. "They do, but I do think there's some truth to them."

The look in her eyes is a dark, burning flame, and her hands reach out to undo his trousers. This time, it is he who can't help the hitch of his breath. "—What?" he asks stupidly, the word cutting into a deep groan as he feels her hand close around his hot flesh.

"A man should be pleased by his woman."

Then he feels her walk him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, forcing him to sit. His heart begins to thud wildly at her claim, hope a little thing forcing itself up his throat.

 _His_ woman, she's said.

Is that how she truly feels about them?

Christine slithers down his body and his thoughts are cut off; another groan leaves his mouth. "Is that—what you're doing with me?"

A lilting, mocking laugh leaves her lips. She uncovers his throbbing shaft and kneels in front of him, naked and glorious before his eyes. "Oh, Erik, I don't want to please you."

"Then what are you doing?" he gasps as she licks along his length, slow and deliberate.

Christine doesn't answer, but she's taken him into her mouth and Erik cannot think to question her anymore.

She's cruelly sadistic, teasing and taunting the promise of release over and over again. His mind dissolves into itself, dizzy with the feel of tongue and breath, of her sweet, brutal mouth closing over his flesh.

Every lick, every swirl of tongue drives him to the point of insanity. It's maddening to think that she knows exactly how to push him, how to make him _beg_ for her in ways he never would consider before. He feels her fingers reach underneath him, cupping the soft, hot flesh beneath his length, and shudders. She sucks on him and he grasps at her hair, tangling fingers tightly against her scalp, past the point of caring if it hurts her.

And when he thinks she's finally going to give it to him, to let him find the release only she can provide, she lets his flesh slip from her mouth. A frustrated growl escapes his lips but she has climbed on top of him, rubbing her wetness against him, and again he's become her slave.

Christine pushes him and he falls against the bed, driving fingers roughly into her hips when she finally takes him into her body. She fucks him in herself and he gladly allows it, high on the feel of her grasping core tight around him, hot and wet and delicious. It's hard and fast and rough, just as she likes it—just as he prefers it.

Although, it is difficult to judge what he _prefers_ when all he's ever had his hard and rough.

The little sliver of hope at her words is a dangerous, threatening thing. One wrong move and he could lose her like he did once before, never allowed another touch. She's wild and heady and thrumming on power—both over him and over herself—and she will not let him take it from her.

She is and isn't the Christine Daaé he had fallen in love with. He adored her softness, desired her innocent naivety. She had been gentle and kind and loving, the very opposite of everything he was. Still is.

Except now, she's changed.

Her sexuality gives her control, and it's clear that she recognises it. It's frustrating to know that in this aspect of their relationship, she is the maestro and he the attentive student. Her body is his weakness, and she exploits it until he becomes her willing slave.

Christine Daaé is no more, except when she is.

He sees it in her daily escapades, in the way she donates her clothing to the maids and their daughters. She complains about the snobbish society of the elite while he undresses her, her concerns not about how they behave towards her, but about how they behave towards their servants. He knows she is uncomfortable living in wealth when he sees her dropping coins into the hand of a starving little boy that loiters in the streets.

There is still kindness, still softness in his Christine. Underneath her façade of dominating dominatrix, she is still the same girl—now evolved into a woman. More mature, more level-headed, slowly realising reality from fantasy.

And—damn him, for he is still irreversibly, ardently in love with her.

It lights a flicker of hope within his chest, tiny and traitorous. Usually, he pushes it away, but tonight, after her declaration, knowing her desire for his body—and seeing her now moving above him, fingers fisting at his chest, lips parted and eyes closed…

She doesn't belong in this society of aristocrats and ballgowns.

She belongs with him.

His orgasm is a tangible thing, thrumming quick and rising in his groin. Feeling recklessly bold, Erik slithers his fingers across her hand, linking small fingers with his own across his chest. He watches through heavy eyes as she blinks, staring down at him. Cobalt irises are hazy and thrumming with desire, too far gone to dwell over her confusion.

Good.

In one swift move he has lifted himself up so his torso is pressed flush against hers. It's dizzying to feel her so close, her nipples brushing his chest, hard and electric. He's close, he's so close, and the gasp that leaves her throat as he slips deeper into her from the new position almost makes him come right then and there.

Instead, he lowers his mouth to her neck, one hand tangled in her curls, and tastes her skin. His knowing tongue flicks and works at her, emboldened by the tight grip of her fingers against his back, the loose cry of his name leaving her mouth. Experience has taught him that she's almost there, a short gap away from spiralling into the sinful void of heaven their bodies create.

"Christine," he groans, egged on by her breathy cries. Wrenching his mouth from her neck, he presses their foreheads together, tasting her breath in his mouth.

A sharp twist of his hips—up and _in_ —and she's gone, crying out and sobbing his name, her lips an inch away from his. Everything is hot and tight and she's _squeezing_ him so deliciously that he follows right after. His release leaves him in hot, desperate spurts, filling her core with himself, and he comes so hard that he feels stars in the backs of his eyes.

A ringing silence is all he hears, sharp and distant. Slowly, awareness fills his mind—her nails lightly scratching his back, chest heaving against his, their breaths mingling in the minute space between their lips. And it is one rash, impulsive move that drives him to close the gap between them, to catch her lips with his.

It is soft and slow, languid with the haziness of a rapturous release. A drag of mouth against mouth, a linger of breath trapped between. He inhales, swallowing her sigh into his throat, and feels her fingers drag up to tangle in his hair.

And he thinks that this cannot be victory; it is far too sweet.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I'm baack! So sorry for the long delay between updates—life has been hectic and I've been so swept up in everything. For those of you following ATS: I hope to update within the week, though this isn't set in stone. I've also set up an RP blog for Erik on tumblr, though, so if you'd like to please do come write with me!

Your reviews and thoughts are delightful to read, thank you. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

 _This is wrong, this is all wrong_.

Light steps across the hard panel of wooden floor, little thuds imprinted into the ground. The moonlight shimmers through her balcony doors, still treacherously flung wide open as she paces the empty room. Inviting, _expecting_ a masked man clothed in dark robes and cloak, so terrifyingly striking. Her husband is not here, but for _once_ she wishes he was.

Erik kissed her.

He had run his misshapen mouth against her lips, sinful and dangerously addictive, and kissed her. Pressed their bodies together while she rode him and held her while she was in the haze of an impending climax, her mind a flutter of intoxicated need. She hadn't even noticed his deranged face pressing against hers—or was he wearing his mask? She didn't remember. It never does seem to matter, when it comes to them.

Her day dress is draped over the chair by her dresser, her dressing gown tied sharply around her waist. There is no need for him to help her undress tonight.

Alarmed thoughts whirl and dizzy her mind as she paces, pink lip caught between teeth. _Surely_ he knows that he's broken the rules—they are _not_ to kiss, they are _not_ to make love. Every moment between them is for use and gain, for mutual pleasure unobtainable from anyone other than each other. She does not want gentle from him—he knows that!

Doesn't he?

A frustrated exhale rips from her throat, loud and agitated. Her strides are angry and purposeful as she marches up and down the room. The vile, conniving man—was he trying to trick her? To seduce her with his lips and tongue the way she had seduced him with her body, leave her craving, _begging_ for more? Didn't he know that of _course_ she wouldn't have rejected his kiss, not when she was so lost within herself to realise what he had been doing?

The memory of his kiss is burned into her mind, fierce and poignant. She cannot forget it, cannot seem to understand _why_.

A flutter of a cape behind her and Christine freezes mid-stride. Her treacherous heart lurches in her chest and begs— _begs_ her to turn around and look at him.

Instead, she forces control and stays still in her spot. His presence is an overpowering, suffocating toxic she greedily breaths into her lungs, takes into her veins. It is with great effort that she forces her body not to react to his heady, tantalising demeanour.

"You've changed," he says, voice a smooth dulcet tone of demon seduction that rips through the air, sharp and precise. It wraps itself around her, coveting her very soul with his velvet timbre.

She suppresses a shudder, feels the betrayal of her toes curling in sinful delight. "Yes," she answers, and it is with a triumphant thrill to hear that her words are clear and strong. "I'm tired. I think I'll retire early tonight."

A chuckle sounds from his mouth and her eyes slip shut against her will, a shaky exhale leaving her lips. He is so intoxicating, so present. And damn him, because she feels him moving into the room, his bearing imposing and unmistakable. Slender fingers clench into fists by her side, tense and tight.

"That is… unexpected." His breath fans her neck, hot and moist, and she thinks about his mouth; misshapen and wet, so deliciously _capable_ and skilled—and his _tongue,_ slick and firm at the same time, mapping her body in ways that draw wanton moans from her throat…

 _No!_ She wrenches herself away from those thoughts, her breaths heavy and miscalculated. "Go home, Erik," she speaks, head tilted halfway to face him, eyes trained downward. Looking at him is not an option, not when her chest feels hollow, her mind numb. "You are not needed here tonight."

The air becomes still and thick and Christine swallows against her will. Oh, he is angry; she can _feel_ the thrumming, trembling hurt, the shattering offence. Somehow, it doesn't feel victorious to make him suffer.

"Is that what I am to you, Christine?" he says softly, and the shudder that ripples through her frame is unconfined, now. "A tool, only to be used when needed? Your plaything—your _toy?"_

"I am _married_ , Erik." Her words are meant to be firm but come out as a gasp.

"You don't seem to be overly concerned by that."

Indignation floods her bones. Her mouth opens to contradict him, but damn the cunning man because he's _right_.

She's married, and it doesn't stop her from wanting him. From thinking about lips and tongue and hands that do not belong to her husband, pale and long and so, so different. Erik's name on her lips, Erik's body between her legs, Erik's mouth against hers.

But anger clouds her sentiments and she whirls around to face him, glaring spitefully. "What I choose to do in my marriage is not your business."

"My involvement in your marriage _makes_ it my business," he retorts, golden eyes flashing dangerously.

A frustrated sound leaves her lips. "You— _you've_ done this! Nothing was complicated before last night—"

"You begged me to fuck you every night, Christine," he snaps. "A kiss hardly complicates matters."

"—it complicates _everything!"_ she hisses. "Boundaries were supposed to be set. Married women take lovers all the time without any consequences, without any _sentiments_ involved."

"I have no recollection of ever having a conversation regarding the nature of our relationship," he snarls.

" _Relationship?"_ She laughs, and it feels gloriously wrong and spiteful but she's past the point of caring. Hurt is a useless thing tossed out of the shattered remnants of her sanity. No, he will _not_ control her by making her want him any more than she already does—she will not allow it.

So she hisses and jeers, mocks without feeling. The words ripped out of her mouth are almost foreign, as if she's watching another woman shout at another man, another Christine breaking another Erik. "We do not have a _relationship!_ We sleep together when my husband is away— _that is all_. I do not speak to you outside this arrangement; we do not have any notion of a _relationship_ when we are not unclothed. We simply _do not fit_. _"_

Erik is rigid, his glare cold as he faces her. "And now that I've crossed a border that has never been discussed, you wish to dispose of me," he says bitterly.

"I cannot afford the expense of you developing affections for me, Erik!" she cries. "You weren't supposed to fall in love with me!"

A short, barking laugh escapes his lips. "My dear, I did not fall in love with you because we started to _sleep_ together. Unfortunately, I have been in love with you long before we began these little dalliances."

She stares at him, eyes wide and chest heaving, finding herself unable to speak. For the first time since he's come into the room, she lets herself drink in his appearance; sees his black fedora tipped low over his face, dark velvet cape swirling dangerously down his back. The white mask sits atop his skin, covering the deformity she knows he will always hide from her. Her dark angel, cunning and fierce and impossibly alluring.

She swallows and turns away. "This cannot continue, Erik," she says, her voice thick. A familiar pressure seems to crush her chest, entirely unwelcome and puzzling. "I was wrong to allow this in the first place."

A growl rips from his throat, tangling with her quiet breaths in the air. "Of _course_ you run back to your Vicomte at the slightest hint of affection from me," he hisses, and she suppresses the urge to flinch. "When I was an angel, you were all too willing to confide in me, weren't you? Innocent little Christine Daaé, naïve and hopelessly clinging onto a fantasy of her father's making."

Shock creeps through her bones that he would _dare_ bring up such a thing, and she turns to him hotly. "Do _not_ bring my father into this!"

"You were so eager to believe, weren't you?" he sneers, unforgiving. Long legs step forwards, imposing and maddeningly powerful. "My gullible, trusting angel, dreaming of princes and pretty fancies. Tell me, _Vicomtesse,_ is your fairytale what you thought it would be? Do you love your prince as much as you love the shadows?"

"Don't you _dare_ question my love for my husband!" she screeches, voice ripped from her throat in a mad rage. "I _do_ love him, far more than I will ever love _you_ —"

" _Then why do you not make love to him?"_ he roars. "Why do you not need _him_ like you need me—"

"I do _not_ need you—"

"Lies," he snaps. "Say what you will, Christine, but it is _me_ you spread your legs for—"

"Shut up!" she screams, flying forwards to throw her fists against his chest. He catches her hands easily and forces his lips against hers, tongue thick and invading in her mouth. His thin, conquering lips are cold against hers, demanding her response, her submission. She squeals angrily, tangling fingers in his hair to wrench him away even as he walks her backwards. It is rough and unforgiving and entirely, deliciously satisfying, and she feels the backs of her thighs hitting the dresser. Her blood thrums with a traitorous excitement, his hot breaths swallowed into her throat. Backed into a corner by her demonic angel once more, trapped and desperate.

A quick tug and her dressing gown is loose, baring her skin to him, pale moonlight blocked by his body against hers. He's sat her down on the dresser, their mouths moving insistently in a seize for power within pleasure. Rough hands sweep over her bare body and he breaks the kiss, their mouths still lightly touching.

"Why are you not wearing your nightdress, Christine?" he rasps into her mouth, cool fingers skimming between her legs. She gasps and clutches at his back, almost shudders at the feel of his touch against her slick, hot flesh. He chuckles deep and low to find her wet. "See, my dear? Your body knows what it needs, no matter how you try to deny it."

"Enough," she gasps, hands boldly flying to his breeches. "Enough talking."

And then the glorious feel of him pushing into her, thin lips dragging against her neck. His scent clouds her senses, leaving her intoxicated on musk and wine, his knowing teeth scraping against her skin. The rich velvet that adorns his back serves to heighten her arousal, knowing that he has her pinned to her dresser whilst fully clothed, the image of a gentleman in a cloak and hat fucking a married woman in her dressing gown so strangely thrilling. His thrusts are quick and hard and dizzyingly delightful, and her mind whirls with the sharp twist of his hips.

Rough, hard, fast. Taking from each other, using and twisting until they are both left gasping for breath.

 _This_ is what they are to each other, what they always have been. Not happy, not forgiving, but dark and distorted. Lies and manipulation wrapped into the bodies of a man and woman.

But the sudden need to kiss him overtakes her and she drags his head back, crashes her mouth to his. It doesn't matter anymore because he's started it by kissing her last night—the sin has been committed and she is already destined for hell. He kisses like she knows he would: desperate and deep, invading her breath as his body invades hers. Mouth hot and insistent against hers, drawing moans breathed into the secret depths of his throat. Pleasure curls its hot iron within her and she cries out—she's so _close_ —

"What do you want?" he demands in a hoarse groan, hips thrusting desperately against hers. His tongue tastes her neck, slick and firm against her skin and she almost sobs, clutching him close.

"You." It is the first word on her lips, gasped out, crazed with want and need and _him_. "You, you, you—"

"Only me," he groans, pushing into her _just right_ , and she frantically nods, moans pressed into his clothed shoulder.

"Only you," she sobs, scratching nails digging into the material of his cape. "Oh _god_ , Erik—"

"Christine," he gasps, and she's lost.

Bright stars burst behind her eyelids and she's falling, her voice a breathless scream in the throes of her orgasm. He comes in her with a shout of his own and it's perversely satisfying to feel him fill her so completely, white creamy fluid so thick and warm within her. For a moment, all she feels is him—his mouth pressed against hers, his fingers clutching at her waist, his release inside her, hot and invasive. Her breaths are uneven and her mind is still dizzy, thrumming in the aftershocks of pleasure.

He's always cold. Cold fingers, cold skin, cold arms. But here and now, pressed against her and dazed from their shattering climax, he is warm.

Sense slowly returns to her once more, her racing heart gradually restored to its leisured pace. She feels his sweaty, clothed chest pressed against her bare torso and inhales his heady scent.

And, somehow, it is clear what she must do.

"I want you," she repeats softly with her heart caught within the balance, and Erik slumps against her, spent and satisfied.

"Christine," he sighs, pressing his forehead to hers. The breath that escapes his lips is relieved, content, sure.

She swallows, and finishes, "…on your knees."

Instantly, he freezes, hard muscles tensing underneath her fingertips. She can practically _feel_ the shock coursing through his veins, a deep, profound blow. She holds her breath as he exhales, pulling back to glare at her.

The guilt she feels is harrowing.

"You used me," he says sharply, voice cutting through the air like a whip. "You use my body and reject everything else."

She stares at him without blinking. "You _manipulated_ me."

"Please," he scoffs, "you _wanted_ to be manipulated. It was a fantasy and you've always wanted to play the princess. Really, what kind of _idiot_ believes in an _angel of music?"_

Her hand collides with his cheek, sharp and powerful. His head snaps to the side—it's a wonder that the mask doesn't fall off—and she watches him, hurt and sharp, hot anger twisting in her heart.

He is still for a moment, breathing heavily at being struck. "Christine," he says quietly, slowly turning back to look at her, "that was untoward of me."

"It was," she snarls, furious.

"I… I'm sorry, Christine."

"Get out of my house."

He looks at her for a long moment, expression stoic and unreadable. Then he pulls away—and it's a traitorously tearing feeling as he slips out of her—and tucks himself back into his breeches. She stares at him, legs still spread across the dresser, robe parted to reveal her body to his gaze, his seed leaking down her thigh.

He turns and strides to the balcony door, and somehow she knows he isn't coming back.


End file.
